


Feeling Rough, Feeling Raw (In the Prime of My Life)

by whiskyandwildflowers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant Mentions of Food Deprivation, Draco Malfoy Has Long Hair, Draco’s leggings are the source of a lot of frustration, H/D Food Fair 2018, Hair-pulling, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry’s trying to figure out his life and it is a Big Mood, Health and Wellness Spas, Humor, Juice Cleanses, Lots of Juice, Lots of Kale, Lots of Tea, M/M, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Post-Hogwarts, Raw Food and Diet, Sun Salutations, Yoga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-12 07:24:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15990440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskyandwildflowers/pseuds/whiskyandwildflowers
Summary: In which Harry has a quarter-life crisis and winds up at a health spa, Malfoy dresses like a cult leader, and everyone consumes a lot of raw greenery.





	Feeling Rough, Feeling Raw (In the Prime of My Life)

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[1](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1E_uQJlIb5C6nLnMg8VrUUnrKtyx16is1FLbyvoxLEik/edit) Detox Resort & Wellness Spa.
> 
> Thanks so much to my betas, lettersbyelise and musingsofaretiredunicorn! You helped make this readable and my thanks are infinite. Any remaining mistakes are my own. And thank you to the mods for their hard work! <3 
> 
> Please know that I have eaten most of the raw foods and juice combinations listed in this fic. It was a labour of love. 
> 
> Note: There is a brief mention of a panic attack near the end of this fic, as well as brief mentions of Dursley-related food deprivation.
> 
> Title comes from the song "Time to Pretend" by MGMT.

One week after quitting the Aurors and telling Gawain Robards to take his job and shove it up his hairy arse in front of the entire department, Harry found himself standing outside of _Wizarding Wellness_ , the most popular health spa and wellness centre in wizarding Britain.

Apparently, quitting your job in a spectacularly dramatic way can cause your friends and family to become a little bit concerned for your health and well-being. This is how Harry ended up at Luna’s detox and wellness centre after being forced into a _relaxing_ holiday by Hermione.

Luna started the centre a few years prior after securing an investment and partnership from Malfoy, of all people. Wealthy witches and wizards came from all over to have their auras read, or to eat heirloom vegetables, or to do whatever trendy things rich health fanatics liked to do to feel superior. Needless to say, Harry was a bit of a skeptic. But, Hermione had been weirdly insistent and Luna was delighted to have him finally come by. Having Hermione and Luna agree about anything had been so alarming that Harry couldn’t protest, even though he’d desperately wanted to.

 _Wellness_ ’ foyer had gleaming white walls and floors, but was also filled with a chaotic collection of colourful plants and flowers. The smell of lavender and essential oils permeated the air, and as Harry absorbed his surroundings, clipped footsteps echoed down the hall.

“Hey Luna! Thanks for—”

“Potter. Nice of you to show up.” Rounding the corner was Malfoy in the flesh, dressed entirely in white with his hair wound into a loose knot at the nape of his neck. He was also carrying a glass of alarmingly green juice, and Harry thought he looked like a some sort of cult leader.

“Malfoy. Er—namaste?” Harry had gotten the phrase from Luna. Malfoy quirked an amused eyebrow at him. This was the worst. “What are you doing here? Where’s Luna?”

“Oh, she didn’t tell you?” A hint of something feral glinted behind Malfoy’s eyes. “She’s away at a seminar about healing crystals for the next week. Hoping to source some really nice quartz from Madagascar.” Harry could feel a sense of dread creeping up the back of his neck.

Malfoy held the glass of juice out to him. There were little black specks floating around in the acid green liquid. “You’re just in time for a complimentary glass of our Tranquility Tonic.” He was so annoyingly calm and unfazed. Bewildered, Harry took the glass and drank deeply so he wouldn’t be forced to talk.

That turned out to be a complete mistake—the juice was slimy and tasted as if it had been dredged up from the dirtiest swamp in Britain.

“What the actual fuck was that?” Harry sputtered, dribbling juice sludge down the front of his jumper.

“It’s organic,” Malfoy offered.

“It’s disgusting,” Harry countered.

“It’s organic celery juice with chia seeds for fibre and protein. Exceedingly good for you.” Malfoy looked so incredibly smug, Harry barely resisted the urge to shove him into a potted plant.

“Look, maybe I should come back when Luna’s finished with her trip. I wouldn’t want to be an inconvenience,” Harry ground out through gritted teeth, trying to remain civil in the face of the numerous injustices he was encountering that day. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen Malfoy in the years since the war—they moved in similar circles now and traded barbed comments on occasion. But even just seeing Malfoy around made Harry alert and on edge. A week together at a health spa was a lot longer than a Ministry function or one of Luna’s parties, and this _Wellness_ version of Malfoy was an altogether new and confusing entity.

“Oh, absolutely not, Potter.  I’m happy to see to your care _personally._ ” Malfoy gave a weird sort of zen sneer. “I’ll show you to your room and you can get acquainted with the programme or explore the centre a bit. Dinner is at 6—tonight we’re serving a raw zucchini lasagne.”

This was going to be the worst holiday of all time.

* * *

Harry Firecalled Hermione immediately once he got to his room.

“Luna isn’t even here! She’s away at some crystal convention!” Hermione shrugged, and realization dawned on him. “You knew,” he said flatly. “You knew she’d be gone and I’d be spending the week with Malfoy. Hermione, what the fuck? Why? I thought you liked me!”

“I do like you, Harry! This time away will be good for you. Enlightening, even! And Luna agreed that maybe having someone else look you over this week might be better.”

“Look me over? You thought it was a good idea to have Malfoy look me over?” Hermione snorted.

“It’s only a week, Harry,” Hermione said placatingly, but with a hint of amusement colouring her tone. He obviously needed to expand his friend group—the loyalty there was seriously lacking in his opinion.

* * *

The tiny glimmer of hope Harry held out for dinner was snuffed out immediately once he entered the dining room.

Everything at _Wizarding Wellness_ was raw. It was also vegan, gluten-free, sugar-free, and vaguely horrifying.

“Is the air gluten-free, or is there some special oxygen here for me to be breathing in as well?” Harry sniped to himself while dinner was served. He was feeling hungry and agitated, and it was literally 3 hours into the first day. Harry had surveyed the centre’s other patrons, and decided to sit alone. He didn’t really want to talk about cashew cheese and electrolytes with a bunch of people in expensive yoga garb.

One thing that Harry noticed was that he could feel the tingle of magic all over the centre, and many of the spa treatments were a mix of Muggle and wizarding ingredients, but he rarely saw anyone actually using their wands besides Malfoy. A break from everyday magic and a slower pace seemed to be what a lot of patrons came for.

Malfoy was sitting at a table with two women in hot pink spandex, loftily eating the distorted excuse for lasagne they were having for dinner. They were hanging on his every word, and Harry’s “lasagne” almost made a reappearance at the display. He had envisioned Malfoy’s role at the centre as more of a silent investor, not an active employee. Maybe this was Malfoy’s game—suckering in lonely housewives with his enlightened guru act.

Harry was feeling further and further from relaxed with each bite of cold mush.

Malfoy stood up from his table and tapped a glass of water with his wand. “Good evening everyone _,_ especially to any newcomers. One announcement and you can get back to your dinner—sun salutations will start at 6 am in the garden.”

Harry had no idea what the fuck a sun salutation was, but he was damn well sure that it wasn’t worth getting up at 6 am for. Malfoy’s fawning fan club started to clap for him, which Harry thought was excessive—it was a standard welcome greeting, not an Order of Merlin acceptance speech.

What was Malfoy’s angle here? Why was he at Luna’s health spa with his stupid trendy hairstyle and ridiculous white outfit instead of counting his Galleons in an evil lair somewhere? It made no sense.

And just like that, this holiday was a lot more interesting. Malfoy was _up to something._ Harry could feel it.

* * *

By the end of the second morning of detox, Harry had learned three things: a mixture of lemon juice, cayenne pepper, and agave syrup was not a suitable breakfast, coffee and most teas were forbidden because apparently caffeine was a _toxin,_ and sun salutations were just an excuse for Malfoy to strut around in obscenely tight trousers while doing vaguely sexual stretches out in the garden.

He was always bending over and arching his back _,_ or adjusting someone’s hips. It was over-the-top.

Harry hadn’t exactly joined the 6 am cult-of-Malfoy, but his room overlooked the garden, so it wasn’t his fault that he’d watched the entire thing while sipping his liquid breakfast. It’s not like they had a telly there anyway.

For lunch, Harry took a nap instead of eating the kimchi and mung bean patties on offer.

By 3:00, Harry was having a soak in the hot tub and trying not to think about treacle tart when Malfoy’s fan club—Sophie and Greta, they were called—popped in to have a soak as well.

They had been taking advantage of all of Malfoy’s planned activities: the sun salutations, seaweed and dittany wraps, something called chakra alignment... Harry was trying to tune out their conversation when he overheard them talking about Malfoy.

“This is my third time doing a week-long stay. I miss Luna, but Draco is such a dream,” Sophie sighed as she sank down lower into the hot water.

“He’s bloody gorgeous. It’s too bad he’s…” Greta trailed off wistfully and she and Sophie giggled. Harry bolted upright in the hot tub, splashing water all over the two women.

“It’s too bad he’s what? What is he?” Apparently Harry had managed to find whatever non-caffeinated energy he had leftover from that morning’s cayenne concoction. The two women gawked at him and started to make their way out of the tub. That was dramatic, in Harry’s opinion—he just wanted to know what Malfoy’s deal was.

* * *

Dinner was a kelp noodle bowl, and as Harry was making his way to his usual table in the corner, he felt a tight grip on his elbow.

“Oh no you don’t, Potter. You’re sitting with me,” Malfoy hissed at him in a low voice. “It’s my job to see to your care, and I'm not going to let you hide away judging everyone in the corner all week.” That was kind of offensive—he wasn’t _judging_ , he was observing. There was a difference.

Malfoy steered him over to sit down at a table for two, and Harry started picking at the dish of cold and clammy noodles in an attempt to avoid conversation.

“Ok, Potter. What are you hoping to get out of this week? What are your goals?” Malfoy was looking expectantly at Harry over steepled fingers.

“Er, I dunno, really. It was Hermione’s idea.” When Malfoy didn’t respond, Harry took that as a sign to continue. “To relax?”

“To relax?” Malfoy parroted back skeptically.

“I dunno Malfoy, isn’t this your job? Y’know, figuring out what’s the matter and performing some hippie vegetable magic to fix my spirits.”

“You could give me something here, Potter. I’m trying to be professional, even if you’re  _clearly_ not.” Malfoy’s tone was clipped and agitated.

“Sure, I’ll give you something,” Harry muttered petulantly under his breath. Malfoy’s eyes narrowed.

“Potter, I can’t help you if you don’t want to be helped. I can lead a very stubborn and obstinate horse to water, and so on and so forth.” Harry bristled at being the proverbial horse in this scenario, but Malfoy soldiered on. “You can take this week to lounge around and drink juice and complain, or you can try and get something out of it. I’ve been paid either way, so it’s up to you. I’m really fucking good at my job, not that _you’d_ care.” Malfoy’s mouth was pressed into a hard, angry line, which was at odds with the peaceful persona he’d been attempting to project thus far.

They both glared into their dinner until Malfoy spoke again, much softer this time. “Just please give this a real go. _I’m_ serious, even if it might be a lark for you. Loathe as I am to admit it, Granger is rather brilliant, and if she saw some merit in you coming here, you might give it a shot for her at the very least.” Malfoy had just said _please_ and had complimented Hermione in the span of less than thirty seconds. Harry was going to have to start checking his juice for mind control potions.

Still, Malfoy’s almost gentle tone made Harry’s belly twinge and swoop. He gave a small grumble of acquiescence.

“I quit my job. I hated it. Probably wasn’t a great idea to rush into a career in law enforcement when my entire life was spent being hunted by a dark wizard who was constantly trying to murder me. Just seemed kind of obvious at the time. I’d never really planned for anything before. Didn’t know if I would be—” Harry cleared a lump in his throat, trying to stop himself before he said something he might regret. “So…yeah. I don’t really know what I'm looking for.”

Malfoy made a thoughtful humming sound. “For the record, Potter? Trying to live your life by someone else’s expectations is a road to ruin. I would know.” The look on Malfoy’s face was unreadable, and Harry felt decidedly squirmy and uncomfortable.

“Malfoy, tell me something. Why is everything here fucking raw? Seriously—what the fuck.” Another meal of cold food had Harry feeling rather raw himself, and he was desperate for a change of topic.

“Heating the food destroys the enzymes and nutrients, and it also forces you to eat your food in its natural, unprocessed state. It’s all organic and very high quality.” Malfoy’s face smoothed back into a more serenely smug expression as he defended the frigid food diet.

“What does _organic_ even mean? That’s just a buzzword.” The food situation at _Wellness_ really left so much to be desired. Harry would have cut off his own arm just to suck on a sugarless mint, at this point.

Malfoy smirked into his bowl of kelp.

* * *

Day 3 passed by in a mostly uneventful fashion. Malfoy continued to try and pry into Harry’s very personal business, though already seeming to know the answers to most of the questions, and continued to serve a variety of nuts and twigs and grass disguised as things that were normally delicious.

 _Organic_ could suck Harry’s cock, to be honest.

Harry was struck by dueling urges—he wanted to avoid Malfoy as much as possible and just get through the week unscathed, but he also desperately wanted to find out why Malfoy was in this line of work. He seemed so composed and calm, but Harry could sense the familiar sarcasm and tension simmering underneath his facade of faux-tranquility.

Harry wondered if Malfoy’s facade only cracked in front of him, and the possibility made satisfaction thrum through his veins like magic.

* * *

To Harry’s irritation, none of the other patrons of the centre had anything negative to say about Malfoy. As far as they were concerned, he was a health genius leading their wellness journeys. They were actually _grateful_ that he was taking the time to talk to them about the virtues of going dairy-free and why they shouldn’t use stasis and warming charms on their food. It was beyond annoying.

By the end of Day 4, Harry was getting pretty antsy. There were only so many mud wraps and meditations that one wizard could stand in the span of a single week.

After taking some time to observe Malfoy’s sun salutations again, becoming annoyed at the way the sun glinted off of his pale hair, Harry had spent most of the morning wanking out of sheer boredom. Boredom and nothing else. Maybe the caffeine deprivation was making him slightly delirious.

Dinner had been an approximation of a BLT with coconut bacon in some sort of leafy green wrap. Malfoy was even ruining bacon—and coconut, if Harry was being frank. Then there was the kale. The sheer amount of kale Harry had been forced to consume in the past four days either in salad or juice form was truly startling.

It was nearing midnight, and for someone who had essentially swapped caffeine for carrot juice, Harry had more energy than he knew what to do with.

The centre was quiet and dark all around—everyone tended to turn in early and rise with the sun. It would be a good chance to actually spend some time in the garden without Sophie and Greta and Malfoy’s other devotees cluttering up the space to talk about their chakras and the pros and cons of fermentation.

Even though it was late at night, the breeze was still warm, and the air in the garden smelled of freshly mown grass and lilacs. Harry loved it out there and wished he had taken more advantage of the garden space instead of hiding in his room.

Across the garden, Harry could see that one of the windows was lit up. It wasn’t one of the guest rooms, so it _had_ to be Malfoy’s room. He was the only member of the staff who stayed on the premises. What was he doing up this late? Especially since he led the class in the garden every morning at the arse-crack of dawn.

Harry, very discreetly, made his way over to Malfoy’s window and crouched below. _Well, if the git didn’t want someone to happen by his room, maybe he should’ve closed his curtains,_ Harry reasoned. Looking in, Harry could see Malfoy sitting with a Quidditch magazine, a cup of tea, and was that—

“What the fuck?!—OW!” Harry stood up abruptly and hit his head on the windowsill.

“Potter? What the entire fuck are you doing _prowling_ outside my window?” Malfoy was standing at the window gaping at Harry, and obviously trying not to laugh.

“What am I doing? What are _you_ doing?” Harry was feeling pretty hysterical, and the bump on his head throbbed in time with every syllable. “You’re just sitting there reading away with an entire fucking plate of chocolate fucking croissants as if you haven’t been starving us for most of a week!” Draco Malfoy was an evil person. On par with Voldemort, surely.

“Potter, shut the fuck up and get in here,” Malfoy hissed in a whisper, directing Harry to the door.

“Sit. I’ll make you a cup of tea. A _proper_ cup,” Malfoy said with a roll of his eyes before Harry could say anything. A proper cup of tea with actual milk and actual sugar. No coconut substitutes. Harry was almost feeling grateful to Malfoy, and that was not okay.

“You’re going to be giving me one of those contraband croissants too, Malfoy.” Harry was ready to start making some demands of his captor. Malfoy slid the plate across to him while taking the seat opposite. Harry took a huge bite of pastry and chased it with a hearty swig of sweet, milky tea. It was practically a religious experience. The pastry was perfectly buttery and flaky, the chocolate was creamy and sweet, and Harry couldn’t remember ever in his life having a cup of tea that tasted so good. It was an absolutely perfect cup of tea, exactly how he liked it. Harry let out a groan, and Malfoy cleared his throat, cheeks pink.

“Look, Potter. I’m not some sort of charlatan or sneak, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I don’t even really know what to think,” said Harry petulantly. “I do know that this must be against the rules. Dairy is the devil, or so I’ve been told.”

“Oh, that’s a bit rich—Harry Potter lecturing _me_ about following the rules,” Malfoy drawled sarcastically. This Malfoy was much easier to deal with than yoga Malfoy. “I usually live here for a month or so at a time, although I have my own flat in London, too. And while following our program is fine for about a week, I’m more of an 80/20 person—80 percent of the time I’m fairly clean living, and 20 percent of the time I have a treat.” This, to Harry’s increasing irritation, sounded infuriatingly reasonable.

“I’d... appreciate it if you didn’t spread this around, mind you,” Malfoy continued. “Our little secret.”

“Malfoy, if you’re sharing these croissants with me, I’ll stay locked up tighter than Gringotts.”

“Potter, as much as I would love to talk about...how _tight_ you can be, this is a terrible analogy—you broke into Gringotts.” Malfoy was giving him an odd look and Harry felt his cheeks heat. He shrugged and tried not to focus on what had sounded suspiciously like innuendo.

“Whatever, just pass me another croissant.”

* * *

Harry found himself in Malfoy’s room the next night, too. It was the same as the night before—a secret cup of tea and a croissant and a chat. With Malfoy.

“How d’you get my tea so perfect every time?” Harry asked, after sipping another sweetened cup of pure heaven. Malfoy muttered something that sounded like  _too much milk_ under his breath.

“What would your ideal last meal on Earth be, Potter?” Malfoy asked, interrupting Harry’s tea-induced bliss with the subject change and mashing a crumb of pastry and chocolate into his plate with his thumb.

“Definitely not that kohlrabi thing we had for dinner tonight. What even _is_ kohlrabi?” Malfoy snorted but didn’t offer an answer. “For real though, it would have to be Mrs. Weasley’s roast beef with gravy, roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, and treacle tart for dessert. Without question.” Harry didn’t even need to think too hard about it—that was his favourite meal on the entire planet. His stomach growled despite the croissants he’d just inhaled. “What would you choose?”

“Do you want my nostalgic answer or my pretentious answer?” Malfoy’s eyes glowed in the dim lighting and his white teeth gleamed as he smiled.

“Both. I want your honest answer.”

“Well, my nostalgic answer is breakfast. Nothing bad can happen over breakfast. Thick slices of toast with lots of butter. Bacon and eggs. Mostly the toast though. Butter is one of life’s greatest pleasures, and when the toast is hot and golden, the butter melting just right…” Malfoy trailed off, throwing his head back with an indecent groan.

Harry couldn’t believe he was listening to health nut Malfoy wax poetic about hot buttered toast. The way he was talking about his favourite meal was the way most people talked about sex—low and slow and seductive. Harry’s skin was on fire, and he cleared a lump in his throat. Was horniness a side effect of the detoxification process? The column of Malfoy’s throat really did look lickable. Harry shifted in his seat.

“And your pretentious answer?”

“Cacio e pepe. It’s a pasta dish I had in Rome. Literally just pasta with cheese and pepper, but it would change your life, Potter.” Malfoy shot him another sharp grin, and Harry couldn’t understand how someone with such a passion for food devoted his life to what seemed like deprivation.

“So why the health spa? Why the godawful juices and the yoga?”

“You can be interested in more than one thing, Potter. I realize that might be hard for you to grasp.” Harry rolled his eyes, but Malfoy’s tone was playful. “I feel like I’m helping people here. It’s calming, and there’s never a dull moment when you’re working with Luna.” Malfoy stopped and a thoughtful look crossed his face. “If you’re indulgent all the time, nothing feels truly special any more. I don’t want to forget what it’s like for these things that I love to feel special. I’m more...appreciative.” Malfoy’s gaze was searing now. Harry’s thoughts turned to the night before, and he recalled the absolute bone-deep satisfaction he had felt with that first sip of tea. Something trickled down his spine and he shivered.

Malfoy cleared his throat. “And don’t get me wrong, a lot of this stuff is very trendy and maybe a bit frivolous—we’re a business and that’s largely my area of expertise. We’re using a lot of Muggle techniques here lately because that’s what’s in-demand. But, we’re also giving people something that they feel they need. A fresh start or a reset. A new frame of mind. You really should come back when Luna’s here—it’s a lot of fun to watch her work.”

“I’d like that.” To Harry’s complete shock, he meant it. As long as he didn’t have to drink any more Tranquility Tonic.

“Besides, you should be grateful you didn’t come the same week as McLaggen,” Malfoy continued. Harry didn’t miss the way his eye had twitched.

“McLaggen? Cormac McLaggen was here?”

“The—thankfully—one and only. He was...enthusiastic about our programme. But, he kept trying to call me by some sort of butchered version of my name, I don't even know, and it was so infuriating that it set off a burst of accidental magic that incinerated my favourite fern. Luna had to have a _chat_ with him about addressing people as they prefer and not giving out unsolicited nicknames.” Harry could not believe that someone had attempted to call Draco Malfoy by some sort of nickname and lived to tell the tale. It was also maybe one of the funniest things in history, and Harry roared with laughter.

Malfoy shot him a withering glance and took a fortifying sip of tea, and Harry wondered how far he would have to go to set off some of Malfoy’s accidental magic.

It wasn’t exactly an unpleasant train of thought.  

* * *

The morning of Day 6 dawned bright and beautiful, and it was astounding how much sunnier Harry’s outlook was after a few purloined pastries. His cup of herbal tea tasted less like grass than before, his glass of kale and celery juice was almost tolerable, and he barely cared when Greta and Sophie slid into the remaining seats at his table.

“So, Harry,” Greta started slowly, “what’s up with you and Draco?” She gave him a look that suggested she was expecting some juicy gossip.

“Er—nothing? We were in the same year at Hogwarts? We have some of the same friends?”

“That’s not what I mean. Have you two… you know…” Greta wiggled her eyebrows suggestively at him. Her meaning hit Harry like a Bludger to the skull. He really could have used some caffeine for this conversation. Or alcohol—a mimosa at least had juice in it. That should count as healthy, really.

“What? No—we’ve never—nothing! We’ve nothing!” Greta and Sophie could not have looked more skeptical if they’d tried.

“But you want to, though,” Sophie said very matter-of-factly. It was like talking to Hermione, if Hermione had decided that Divination and mysticism were worthy callings instead of appalling wastes of time. A deeply unnerving experience, to be sure.

“And _he_ wants to,” Greta added. This was much more interesting.

“And, uh—what makes you say that?” Harry asked carefully, not wanting to betray any interest in the matter. Not that he was interested. Not that he was suddenly _very_ interested.

The women shared a _look_. “Well, I’ve done this program three times now, and once he discovered you were watching our morning stretches, Draco’s outfits definitely became more… form fitting than usual. I mean, it’s yoga clothes so they’re never baggy, but it’s a marked change, let’s put it that way.” Sophie smirked.

“I wasn’t—I didn’t—it’s not like that!” Harry sputtered. He hadn’t been _watching_. He’d been _observing_. Looking out for suspicious behaviour. _Yeah, and those wanks were really just boredom wanks, weren’t they?_ Harry’s subconscious supplied. He gave his head a shake.

“Whatever you say. Not really our business,” Greta chimed in. As if what was their business had stopped them at all this week.

“You should go for it, though,” Sophie said, and she and Greta stood up from the table. “Besides, if the looks between you two were any hotter, you’d be in danger of actually cooking the food here.”

Harry sat, digesting both his green juice and their words. _Go for it._ Is that what he wanted? To _go for it_?

* * *

Harry felt nervous and vaguely buzzed as he made his way to Malfoy’s room that night for another clandestine meeting. He couldn’t get Greta and Sophie’s words out of his head, and he felt as if his skin was suddenly two sizes too small.

Malfoy clearly had been waiting for him, and it was incredibly weird that the two of them would share such an amicable routine. He hadn’t changed completely out of his yoga clothes and was still wearing his painted-on leggings and a gauzy white shirt. Harry groaned internally—his cock also was apparently having a difficult time forgetting that Malfoy was allegedly _interested_ in him.  

“No croissants tonight, Potter. You won’t appreciate them as much if you have them every night.” Malfoy quirked his lips and offered Harry a glass of iced peppermint tea. Harry swallowed thickly and made his way into Malfoy’s room. He mumbled his thanks for the drink and leaned stiffly against a table.

Harry picked up a nearby _Quidditch Quarterly_ and saw an ad for Every Flavour Beans on the back. “I haven’t had those in ages!” Clearly he was desperate for some innocent conversation if he was resorting to talking about Every Flavour Beans.

“She’d kill me if she knew I was telling you this, but Hermione secretly loves the grass-flavoured ones. She gets Ron to help her pick them all out from the box so she can save them to eat all at once. Kind of a guilty pleasure thing, I think. At least it’s not the ear wax flavour.” Harry was rambling, but Malfoy huffed out a laugh.

“Hm. I don’t believe in associating guilt with any of my pleasures these days.” Harry repressed a little shiver. “Although, I did go through a brief blood-flavoured lollipop phase in Fifth Year. I thought that it would seem romantic and dark and brooding, but they really are quite disgusting.” Harry thought this must have been a very brief phase, because he was sure he would have noticed Malfoy sucking on lollipops, or a bright red stickiness smeared all over his smug mouth.

“So Potter, it’s the last night and you’re almost done. You must be itching to get out of here and back to your Sunday roast,” Malfoy said, swirling his iced tea around in its glass, the ice making a tinkling sound as it clinked against the sides. “I hope this week wasn’t completely terrible for you.” Malfoy was obviously trying to keep a casual, light tone in his voice, but Harry caught something else within the air of nonchalance. Malfoy _cared_ what Harry thought.

“No, it wasn’t all bad. I’m looking forward to eating normal, hot meals again. And cheese _isn’t_ made from cashews, you will never convince me otherwise. I never want to see kale ever again. Ever. But other than that…”

“Well, if you’ve gotten anything out of this week, I guess that’s my job done.” Malfoy gave him a sort of fond smile which was an expression that Harry was sure he’d never seen him make before.

“Look, Malfoy. I don’t think I was the most open-minded guest here, and I’m sorry for that. I just… I really can’t take it when people try to tell me what to eat and when to eat. The Muggles I grew up with—sometimes I didn’t get to eat. I never got to choose. So it’s hard for me now… And the eating schedule here is so rigid.” Harry was sure he wasn’t making any sense. He resented Malfoy and his soft smile for making his insides spill out. If his feelings were tangible, physical things, Harry was sure he’d be making a mess all over the floor.

Harry didn’t know exactly why he was sharing this awful, tender part of himself with Malfoy, this part of himself that people thought they knew about from the papers but didn’t really _know_ . In that moment, he’d _needed_ Malfoy to know. He felt raw and exposed in a way he didn’t usually let himself feel.

Harry could feel his heart racing. Sweat was starting to bead around his hairline and his breaths were coming too quickly. Harry gripped the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles went white. Malfoy made a muted sound of concern.

“Is it okay if I touch you?” Malfoy tentatively put his hands on Harry’s shoulders, and Harry could feel the heat of him at his back. He felt himself being eased into a sitting position on the soft rug on the floor.

“Here, Potter. I honestly think a little bit of deep breathing might help.” Malfoy’s voice was very soothing. He took Harry’s hand and placed it to his abdomen with his own hand over the top. “Feel how your breaths are coming in and out. I want you to breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth, and feel it right here in your belly.”

Harry could feel each of Malfoy’s breaths, hot and humid against the back of his neck. As they moved together, breathing deeply, Harry was no longer upset about their earlier conversation. He was not, however, relaxed at all. Being in close proximity to Malfoy was a distraction. An arousing distraction.

They sat entwined for what felt like hours, but was probably five minutes at most. Neither spoke, and the only sound filling the room was their synchronized breathing. Harry could not have felt more aware of every sound and movement, and of Malfoy’s presence behind him. He smelled spicy like cloves, and Harry’s head was swimming with it all. He was completely enveloped by the whole situation.

“You said last night that you were giving people what they felt they needed here,” Harry said, finally breaking the thick silence. His voice was coarser than usual and he was drawing on every ounce of his legendary Gryffindor bravery. “What is it _you_ think I need, Malfoy?”

Malfoy tensed and stiffened against Harry’s back. “Do you want my professional answer or my personal one?”

“Both. I want your honest one,” Harry replied carefully, not wanting to break the heady mood surrounding them.

“I think you need a break—and while you coming here was a well-intentioned experiment, you need to take a break doing what _you_ want. I think you rushed into a job because it was what was expected of you. You, Golden Boy that you are, hate disappointing people. I think you need to be fulfilled, and to feel useful, and to feel like you’re doing some good. I think you would hate being idle, and that you need a purpose. But I think you need to take some time to figure out what that is. And I think that if anyone deserves some time to see how things unfold organically, it’s you.” Malfoy’s answer was careful, and so precise and honest that it made something swell and twist in Harry’s chest.

Harry swallowed. “And your personal answer?” The last answer had felt pretty personal, in his opinion, cutting through layers of feelings that Harry hadn’t dealt with.

Malfoy removed his hand from where it was covering Harry’s and scooted back a bit. “Potter, I think that I’m about thirty seconds from showing you exactly what I think you need.”

Harry whirled around so quickly that he almost toppled over. He felt dizzy—likely from the fact that most of the blood in his body was making an abrupt pilgrimage to his cock. Malfoy’s face was flushed and his eyes were wide and dark. At this moment, Harry knew what he _wanted_. Maybe even _needed._

Harry kneeled up and closed the gap between them, placing one hand on Malfoy’s chest and gripping the back of his neck with the other. Malfoy made a surprised, urgent sort of sound and suddenly they were kissing so deeply that Harry forgot how to breathe. Malfoy’s mouth was soft and minty and feverish, and his body was lean and firm under Harry’s palm. They moved together naturally, and their earlier deep breathing now seemed like a preview of just how compatible their bodies were in this close proximity.

Malfoy pulled away first, his lips wet and kiss-bitten. “Potter, I don’t know if we should—you just had a bit of a panic attack or something there and I don’t want to take advantage of you or anything…” Malfoy looked uncertain and a little bit wrecked. Wisps of hair were coming undone from the knot at the nape of his neck and he looked dazed, disheveled, and off kilter. Maybe sharing vulnerable moments with Malfoy had softened Harry’s heart towards him but this— _this—_ had always been there. This tension and heat had always been running as an undercurrent to everything they’d ever done, every interaction they’d ever had.

Harry was suddenly desperate and throbbing for it. He wanted Malfoy in every single way. He wanted to feel him and touch and pull and push and move. “I want this. I do,” Harry said. He ran his hand along Malfoy’s cheek, feeling the slight scrape of stubble, and the heat of Malfoy’s skin. They were forehead-to-forehead now, breaths skating over each other’s mouths.

Malfoy gently pushed Harry flat onto his back on the rug and scraped his teeth along Harry’s neck. Their hips slid together, and Malfoy’s clingy yoga leggings were basically useless at concealing how affected he was by Harry. Harry ran his hands along Malfoy’s back and biceps as Malfoy rucked up his shirt and mouthed a path downwards. Harry was so hard it almost hurt, and it was all because of Malfoy. All because of Draco Malfoy, who was currently torturing him with his tongue, who was enticingly hard in his stupid leggings, and who was quickly moving in the direction of a blowjob.

Malfoy stopped just as he was licking a trail below Harry’s belly button. “Is this—” he started, and Harry nodded enthusiastically. He would drown Malfoy in a vat of celery juice if he stopped at this point. “I’ve thought about this,” Malfoy said so softly it was almost inaudible.

Harry sat up and Malfoy gripped Harry’s waistband and started to pull down his pajama bottoms. “Yours too,” Harry managed to croak as he ripped off his shirt and wiggled out of his pajamas. Malfoy hauled his own shirt over his head and pulled his tight black leggings down over his long legs. Harry could see his cock—Harry was actually looking at _Malfoy’s_ cock—which was hard and pink and leaking. Malfoy softly ran his hands over Harry’s thighs.

“You just... _fuck_ , Potter. You bring it all out in me.”

Before Harry could ask what he meant, Malfoy took him into his mouth and all hell broke loose. Malfoy was an absolute fucking talent. He swirled his tongue over the tip of Harry’s cock, sucking as he did so, and twisting his hand at the base. It was insane. Harry wanted to close his eyes and lose himself in the sensation, but he also never wanted to take his eyes off of Malfoy’s smarmy, snobbish mouth wrapped around his cock. Harry ran his hand over Malfoy’s head and gripped the knot in his hair. And then he pulled.

Malfoy let out a filthy moan around Harry’s cock and started wanking himself in tandem with his sucking and stroking. He was kneeling between Harry’s legs, fellating him for all he was worth, yoga-toned arse in the air and precome dripping on the rug. The more Harry pulled on Malfoy’s bun, hand tangling in the fine strands, the more Malfoy writhed and moaned and the harder he sucked. Harry felt a primal urge to hold him down there—to hold Malfoy steady on his cock by his annoying trendy hairstyle.

Harry could feel himself tensing and the pressure building. He gave Malfoy a little push on the shoulder for warning, but Malfoy kept steadfastly sucking his cock until Harry was coming in pulsing streams down his throat. Malfoy shuffled forward a little—some of Harry’s release dripping from his kiss-swollen mouth—and stroked himself roughly until he was coming in hot spurts all over Harry’s chest and belly.

Malfoy rolled over onto his side, laying his head against Harry’s shoulder. They were silent for a while, sweaty and panting on the floor. Harry ran his thumb through some of the mess on Malfoy’s face, his cock twitching at the memory of his come trickling down Malfoy’s pointy chin. He trailed his fingers through the wetness spattered on his own chest and then lifted them up to inspect them, fighting the urge to draw them into his mouth.

“So… is this organic too?” Harry asked with a grin. Malfoy sighed and pinched him on the arm.

“We only serve quality here, Potter.” Malfoy smirked and stood up shakily. “I feel like a shower might be in order, and I have a new wormwood infusion for the steam room that I want to test out. You’re welcome to join me.” Harry wasn’t sure if his legs could carry him that far, but the steam room sounded very, _very_ promising.

* * *

Harry woke up on his final morning at _Wizarding Wellness_ blissfully tangled in Malfoy’s lavender-scented sheets, but alone. Harry felt a cold, sick knot of dread in the pit of his stomach, embarrassment curdling his warm and easy mood, until he saw the note on his pillow.

_Sun salutations wait for no man—and although you were moaning for some deity in bed last night, I am a mere mortal with no control over the sun. Find me in the garden later when you get up, if I haven’t completely worn you out._

It was such a Malfoyesque note, and Harry couldn’t believe someone could convey that much arrogant self-satisfaction on a scrap piece of parchment. And yet, that didn’t stop the rush of heat and anticipation he felt after reading it.

Harry cast a quick Disillusionment charm to avoid any prying eyes and hastily made his way back to his room.

He went out to the garden a few hours later, once he was packed and almost ready to go. He didn’t want to leave Malfoy, and it was the oddest feeling—he’d been ready to escape from the centre since practically the moment he’d stepped through the doors.

The garden was empty, so Harry took a final stroll around. He stuck his hand into a patch of soil and felt the soft earth beneath his fingertips and the warm sun on his face. _This_ was relaxing—out in the open space among the flowers and trees. He would’ve liked the opportunity to get some dirt all over one of Malfoy’s frustratingly pristine white outfits...

“So I guess this is where we’re parting ways.” Malfoy’s voice came from behind, startling Harry from his filthy flowerbed thoughts.

“I guess.” Taking Malfoy for a tumble the night before had been thrilling and had felt so weirdly _right_ that Harry felt cheated that this was all they’d get.

“Potter, look, I—I’m really good at seeing what other people need, but I think sometimes... I neglect to focus on what I might need,” Malfoy started and then cleared his throat. “Luna’s back next week and so I won’t have to be here as much. We could... I could give you my flat address. If you want. You could come by.” For all of the bravado in his note that morning, Malfoy sounded so tentative that Harry’s heart ached a bit with it.

“I’m an unemployed layabout now anyway, so I think my schedule is pretty open,” Harry said with a laugh.

“And you’re a decent enough shag, so it would be a shame to waste that.” Malfoy smirked, a hint of his familiar bite returning to his tone. Harry felt like he could get used to this fond sarcasm.

“If I’m a decent shag after a week of twigs, imagine how good I might be when I’m well-fed?”

“I think I could keep you well-fed, Potter.” Malfoy’s eyes blazed with heat. Harry moved towards him and yanked him into a kiss that was a clash of teeth and too much tongue, but also a lot of promise.

Harry pulled away reluctantly. “I’ll see you next week, Malfoy. And thank you. I mean it.” Harry made his way towards the exit to find the Apparition point. He’d gone into this week drained and lost, and was leaving with a hatred of fresh juice and an appreciation for yoga leggings. He was also leaving with a spark burning in his chest that felt new and exciting, yet familiar and comforting. That was always the way Malfoy felt to him—exciting and thrilling and infuriating and complicated, but also familiar and strangely natural.

Harry still needed to sort out his life, but that didn’t mean things had to be boring in the interim.

Nothing about this was boring.

* * *

Exactly a week later, Harry received an owl.

_I’ve been imagining how good you’d be when you’re well-fed. I’m hoping you’re still a little hungry for what’s on offer._

Malfoy was seducing him with food-related wordplay. Alarmingly, it was working.

Harry showed up on Malfoy’s doorstep holding a Bentonite Boom smoothie that had cost an extortionate amount of money and had actual fucking _clay_ in it. Malfoy opened the door and gave him a long, appreciative look.

“Is that for me?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Harry held out the cup. “It’s organic,” he offered with a grin. Malfoy took the cup with a smirk and hauled Harry inside the flat by the neck of his jumper.

He might have needed an initial push in a new direction, but Harry was excited to see how the rest of his life might unfold organically.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or on [Livejournal](https://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/146970.html).


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